Seeking Glory
by kbeckett
Summary: A man sits, preparing himself for conflict.


Seeking Glory

By: kbeckett

The young man sat at a bench starring ahead. He was surrounded by twenty others sitting at their own places, conducting their own rituals. Around them in the brightly lit room there were others all conversing and trying to interact with him and his colleagues. He paid them no mind.

He sat, focused, as he withdrew from the storage area in front of him various pieces of equipment. Checking each piece carefully, looking for signs of wear and places where it could fail; he knew that quite literally his life could depend on it. Leg and arm guards, chest and groin protection and finally thick heavy gloves each was checked in turn and placed in a specific order, ready for him to don.

As he methodically equipped himself following a set routine, nay ritual, that he had established years previously he reflected on the upcoming contest; ordering his thoughts and plans. As each piece was strapped or belted to his body he worked out strategies and what he would do when faced with obstacles and people who tried to sway him from his goal. He planned out options he could use against those which would cause him harm. He knew that no plan survived the onset of a conflict, but also knew that failure to review options would be catastrophic.

He knew that in the end it would be up to him. He had always known that in the end it would, just as in all previous cases it had been so. Yes the others, his compatriots, would be there to assist and help but, in the end, it would be up to him to secure victory. One way or the other he would finish the upcoming struggle.

That though comforted him as he continued equipping himself, tight white pants, heavy leather boots which went up nearly to his knees and a form-fitting white shirt and he was mostly kitted out. Just before putting on his bright white robes with the blue and red patch over his left breast he kissed, for luck, his Joseph medallion which hung from a platinum chain around his neck; he then tucked the medal inside his shirt so that it would not distract him later.

It was a gift from his wife and he knew that she would be waiting for him; bushy brown hair tied back to keep it out of the way, she would be there to support him, to the best of her gravid ability. They had married after a whirlwind courtship, to the stunning dismay of others, and had spent every available minute together. She had come to see him earlier, kissed him soundly for luck, and had left him to complete his preparation in private, as she knew he needed to do. Finally he donned his helmet; it was new, barely tested, and incorporated the ability for him to communicate with others.

He looked up as several of his colleagues stood up and began to leave the room. They were supporting players, not likely to be on the front lines of the upcoming conflict until needed to replace someone who fell. He smiled briefly at each in acknowledgment as one by one they came by and grasped his arm in companionship.

With the departure of this group of colleagues he slowly began to focus in on the words and actions of others. He digested the comments and directions of his leaders, the advice from other, older, hands – those whom had been there before.

Finally all that remained in the room were his core group of colleagues; the others, the supporters, the sycophants, those there to provide logistical support and the leaders having left to take up their own positions. Looking around he saw quiet confidence from them all. They had been through many trials by that point and the upcoming conflict would be the culmination of months of effort. They had trust in each other, in their collective and individual abilities and, most importantly, trust in him. They knew that when all seemed lost that he would be able to snatch victory from defeat, after all he had done just that countless times before.

He began to feel vibrations through the floor of the room, a low, rhythmic throbbing. It was a sign; it was time to leave to meet their destiny. Outside of the room shouts and exhortations rose, as if calling each of them to their duty. That was the final sign, they knew that it was time, time to go and meet their opponents, time to join in conflict.

Each of his friends and colleagues made final adjustments to their equipment grasped his arm in friendship and remembrance and slowly filed out of the room, leaving him to his final thoughts and preparations. They knew that he would be carrying the weight of them all; success or failure would be in his hands.

Holding his primary piece of equipment he carefully examined its wood-grain for chips or flaws. Finding none, as he knew he would, he held it by his side as he waited for his moment. That final check was ritual, a comfort as he waited; waited for his call his call to destiny.

Noticing a sudden lull in the shouts and voices he knew it was his turn, his time. Moving out of the room he deliberately walked down the short hallway to the exit.

Pausing for a moment rocking from foot to foot as if to keep loose; he looked out at the pitch-black sky, moonless and it appeared that even the stars had failed to show. The air was still and it seemed that the entire universe was poised and waiting to bear witness to the upcoming struggle.

He thought to himself, "this is my time; it is my fate to be here at this place. Others have struggled and lost everything to allow me this opportunity. Others were never even given the opportunity to see or help me as I know they would have wished I will fight with respect for them and in their memory." He paused for a moment, briefly crossed himself and reverently touched the three blue lions rampart on his left breast.

Suddenly he was illuminated by a bright light and he heard the announcement, "…And starting as seeker for England….., the youngest starting player in World Cup history….., the only person to have a snitch catch rate of over 95%, combined with a game completion rate of 100%....., Harrrrrrrry Potter!!"

Harry leapt onto his Firebolt Mark V and raced to the skies, followed by the bright spotlights and hearing 100,000 voices screaming his name.

"POTTER, POTTER, POTTER, POTTER…"

"Yes," he thought, "this is for you dad," as he flew out into glory and history.

FINIS

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A/N – A short drabble which snuck up on me. Helped to shake out the cobwebs as I work to finish the next chapter in Si Vis Amari, Ama - If you want to be loved, love.


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